


Kindled Ember

by simplyabbey



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Angst, Danger, Death, Discussion of Abortion, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Romance, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 05:25:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyabbey/pseuds/simplyabbey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Katniss and Peeta are learning how to love each other after the rebellion, but things are made difficult by the Capital again. It's time to fight for love one more time...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Primroses

 

 

Disclaimer: I don't own Hunger Games or any characters or settings.

 

Chapter 1: Primroses

“What happens when we get back?"  
"I don't know. I guess we try and forget."  
"I don't want to forget.”  
Peeta and Katniss--Hunger Games

 

Moving forward with life is hard. So much harder than I ever thought possible. It takes every piece of who I am to draw each breath, to will myself to keep moving. Every day must be started with a task, an idea, a motive. Something to make the day worth facing. Sometimes I can't find it, and I spend the day wallowing in my grief, screaming as the memories overtake me.

And then some days I do find a purpose. A reason to move forward. It's easier at dawn, when the sun hits the primroses beneath my window just right. The way they shine under the gold seems happy, peaceful and perfect, just like my own Primrose. I can remember her smile, her laugh and her hope. And I know that she would want me to pick up, move on and be happy. I know that she'd be horrified to know how I let my grief over the loss of her rip my life apart.

The days that are most bleak, the days that devastate my soul, are the days without the sun. Without the bright morning glow glistening off the early morning dew the primroses look dull and lifeless. Without the blaze of joy on the petals to remind me of Prim's light, I feel nothing to remind me of her. To me, the dreary petals were a reminder that Prim can't smile or laugh anymore. She can't hope that I'll pick up, move on and be happy. Because Prim is dead. Prim is dead because of me. Because I couldn't protect her. Because I wasn't strong enough to hope in the power of the rebellion. Because I was not the Mockingjay they thought I was.

Days like this are days when I'm at my weakest. Days when every object in the house is a dangerous temptation, a means to a sweet ending to my never ending sadness. It's amazing the creativity that depression can spark. Even when I'm at my happiest, on days the dawn shines perfectly, I could never be this creative. I could never see new things like I do when I want to end my life.

Honestly, I think it would have been over months ago if it hadn't been for him. Peeta. Even thinking his name hits my heart in a way that I can't tell is painful or sweet. Peeta's the one who found me the first time, using the pages of a book to meticulously slice my thighs, cutting like butter through the new skin. I didn't hear him, I was so entranced by the color of my blood sliding over the pale, uneven surface of the skin that was not truly mine. It shouldn't have surprised me when his hand closed gently but firmly over my wrist while the other hand pulled my chin up to look into his devastatingly blue eyes, eyes that sliced through the haze of loss to reach my soul, to pull me from the fog of my mind to break the surface as if I'd been drowning. They grasped me with their icy intensity and wrenched me into the world, making me gasp. I could feel it all now, the rough wooden floor under my bare legs, the chill of the morning raising goose bumps on my arms. The warmth of his hands on me. If I hadn't been so wrapped in my pain I probably would have heard the clunk of his leg on the floor. I would have known he was coming, could have stolen myself away inside my mind, blocked myself from the access of his soul to mine. But I hadn't.

Since that moment, Peeta has kept a close eye on me. It didn't take him long to notice the pattern, to see the way I looked at the primroses. I don't think he really knew how different my perspective of them could be, he only knew they were a source of both happiness and depression, a constant reminder of my sister. It wasn't until the season change, the time of the year when the lingering cold of winter clashes with the coming summer, resulting in unexpected showers. I had been outside for hours trying to coax Buttercup out of a tree when Peeta came out to help me, bringing with him a roll of sweet bread from the bakery. He caught me looking at the primroses again during a brief interlude while we rested our arms from their constant task of reaching up toward the resistant cat. He commented then on the primroses, pointing out how much they'd grown in the last few months. I'd given him a small smile, thanking him again for his work in planting his flowers. He'd only responded with a barely perceptible frown, then returned to stretching his arms out to Buttercup, pieces of sweet roll in his hands.

It was about six seconds after that when the sky opened up, releasing a downpour of rain. The sky darkened after the rain started, blocking out the sun. We watched Buttercup scramble down the treat, shrieking like a...well, a wet cat. Peeta sighed and chased after him before he could lodge himself under the angry neighbor's porch. I turned to follow him but something else caught my attention. It was the primroses. They looked at their worst in the onslaught of the pelting rain falling over District 12. The flowers were bent toward the ground, as if turning themselves away from the rain in protection. They looked pitiful...and dead.

Peeta found me there, kneeling in the mud in front of the primroses. A part of me heard him come up behind me, wanted him to pick me up gently, like he had every time before that, when he'd found me slumped off my bed or huddled in a corner of the tub. But he surprised me. He seized me by the shoulders, dragging me to my feet and throwing me over his shoulders. I reacted subconsciously, kicking and screaming at him, tears mixing with the rain on my face. The old Peeta, the Peeta before the first Reaping, would have been able to manage the task of carrying me easily. The new Peeta, the Peeta who was damaged, whose body was not all his anymore, could not. We both fell to the ground, dirt and mud covering us. I lay there, still screaming with my eyes shut. I didn't know why, I didn't know how I managed to keep up the scream with my chest screwed in so tight. But somehow I did. And I didn't stop, not until Peeta sat astride me, straddling my waist.

And then Peeta did something he'd never done before. He hit me. The flat of his palm struck my face, the sound deafening to my ears, even over the sound of the rain, my screams and his ragged breathing. I could hear my scream gurgle to a stop as horror sunk in through the sorrow. After his rescue, Peeta has tried to strangle me. He'd wanted to kill me after the Capitol had brainwashed him. But this...the slap. This was somehow so much worse. I felt like the heat of the slap on my face was radiating out from my face and through my body, then tightening around my chest and seeping into my heart, setting it on fire from the pain of it. And then the look in his eyes, the angry in those amazing blue eyes, shocks me. The ice shoots into my chest, freezing my charred heart and shattering it.  
Peeta's chest is heaving as he glares down at me, his stare continuing to freeze my chest while the heat from his slap has the rest of my body on fire. I'm gasping, clawing at the dirt as I try to get air into my lungs. It's not Peeta's physical weight that's left me breathless, but the weight of his gaze, of his anger. I can't even comprehend the state of utter helplessness I'm in. The old Katniss, the Katniss before the Games wouldn't ever allow this. But then, that Katniss was never brought to her knees by a set of primroses before.

"Tomorrow, I'm digging up those damn flowers," Peeta growls. "If I'd known what they'd do to you, I never would have planted them."

My heaving stops as something jumps in my chest. It's my heart. It's come to life, and it's racing with anger. I hear a loud trill in my ear and feel something hard striking the outsides of my hands over and over again, my vision going black. It's not until I realize the thudding against my hands has stopped and there's a pressure on my wrists and something warm and clammy against my mouth that I stop. The feeling is familiar and I wrench into reality with a start. I realize then that the trill was me, screaming until the air in my lung was coming out in a wheeze. The thudding on my hands had been my fists hitting his chest, and now the pressure on my wrists was his hand and knee on my wrists while his free hand was over my mouth. And I realized why this position, these points of pressure, were so familiar.

Clove. This was how she'd pinned me down, the day in the arena when she'd almost killed me.

Peeta must have seen something in my eyes, because his immediately dulled from sharp points of anger to soft edges of worry. When he was sure my episode was done, he pulled himself off of me, plopping down to sit in the mud. He then reaches for me, tenderly, attempting to pull me into his arms. I flinch away and his eyes change to sadness.

"Katniss?"

I respond with one word. "Clove."

Peeta's next breath is taken in sharply when the name falls from my lips. In a movement faster than I thought he was capable of he's closed the distance between us and seized hold of me, hauling me into his lap. I push and shove, desperate to get out of his arms, to get away from everyone and be alone in the house of endless possibilities. But Peeta continues to hold me, letting me thrash until my energy runs out, surely obtaining several bruises in the process. I take one last deep breath, then feel myself sink into Peeta's arms. We sit there like that for ages, letting the cool spring rain soak into our skin, dragging our heated bodies back down to sane.

"I'm sorry," Peeta gasps into my neck as his fingers drive into my hair and to my scalp, holding me to his chest. "I didn't think...I didn't realize. I forget, Katniss. I'm so sorry."

I drag my head up to rest on top of his shoulder, to look into his eyes. As grey meets blue, I'm startled by the tenderness I see in them. It's easy to forget most days, in the fog of my depression, that this boy is in love with me. And how could that ever occur to me, when it makes no sense? From the day we met, I was damaged goods. Living under the constant threat of death can really destroy a girls will to fall in love. The more you have, the more they can take from you.

I remember the words Haymitch said to me once. "You could live a thousand years and not deserve him."

And he was right. After everything I'd put him through, I'd never deserve him. The thought made me shudder, the idea that I'd always be alone. No Gale. No Prim. No Mom. No Peeta. No one.

Peeta misinterpreted the shudder as a sign of cold instead of my looming depression.

"Do you think you can stand, Katniss?"

I felt myself nod. I scooted myself from Peeta's lap then stood, having to remind myself the whole way up how to work the different muscles in my body. Each stretch was like a shock to each part of me, each creaking limb remembering that it could go on moving, even after everything. That, even when my heart was hollow, I could still keep moving.

Well, mostly hollow.

I looked down to see Peeta struggling to rise from the ground, unsteady today on his prosthetic. The sight was heart wrenching. While I sported my fair share of emotional and physical trauma from the Capital, Peeta's are far worse...and he still takes it with more grace and love than I ever will. I can't tell what my lips are trying to do, if they're trying to smile or if they're trying to frown. I hold out my hand to help Peeta up, which he stares at for a moment with a look of resentment. I know the frown is not for me, but the help he needs. After a sigh, he reaches out and takes my hand. With a groan I help heave him to his feet. And before I know it, we're chest to chest in the rain.

His hands leave mine to trace up my arms, wrap around my shoulders and wind into the hair at my neck. Ice meets steel as his gaze holds mine and I'm not sure who will be able to look away first. I can feel the panic well up inside of me as I see his intentions.

No, no, no!

I turn my head, looking away. As my gaze falls on the primroses any happiness I felt in Peeta's arms froze and shattered.

Peeta sighed and used his hold on my head to tear my gaze back to his.

"Come on," he sighs, pulling away and putting a hand back in mine. He pulls me toward the front door of the house, a slight limp on his left leg.

This disturbs me. Peeta's had the prosthetic for over almost 2 years now and it's been ages since I've seen him limp that badly. I resolve myself to examine the leg at my first opportunity, and the idea is stabilizing. A task to look forward to, a reason to move forward. Peeta saves me in many ways.

* * *

Once in the house, Peeta shuts the door behind us then turns to me, dropping into a low bow.

"If you please, madam, I think a warm bath is in order."

I roll my eyes but reward his humor with a smile, putting my hand into his now outstretched one. He smiles in return, then turns to pull me up the stairs then lead me down the hallway, quick to move past the room that I know would have been Prim's, the room I've been unable to open. She never got a chance to live in it, and that only makes it worse.

He pulls me into the bathroom and sits me down on the lid of the toilet, a marvel from the Capital. He leaves me then to turn to the tub and turn the faucets to run the hot water in. Another marvel from the Capital...no-work hot water. Well, virtually no work. Then something occurs to me, something I'd been in too much of a fog to think about.

"Peeta," I start, "I haven't been putting anything in the stove to keep the water and house heated. How--"

"Oh please, Katniss," he says with a sigh, still looking at the water running into the tub. "Did you really think hot water and heat magically appears? It's not like I was going to let you freeze, even if you were willing to." He says this last bit with a hard frown on his face.

"Oh," I breath, realizing what this means. Peeta had been dragging fuel to the stove, probably every day, then fed it for me periodically throughout the day. "Peeta, you didn't have to do that. I can...."

Peeta sits swiftly then, looking me in the eyes with emotions I can't comprehend. He places his hands back in the hair at my neck, their favorite place to be. He smiles tenderly at me, his thumbs brushing my cheeks.

"For you, Katniss, anything." He says this with the most intensity I'd ever heard anyone say in a sentence including my name. "Now, I think the water's warm," he says, reaching over to turn off the faucet. He turns back to me with a smile. "Ready?"

I look at him with a frown. "A bath? I'm already wet, and I'm not dirty."

Peeta sighs. "That's not the point, Kat. You're frozen to the bone, and this will help."

"Peeta," I groan, slumping back against the wall, "I don't feel right, so many other people don't have stuff like this, haven't been given the privilege yet--"

"Katniss." Peeta says my name sharply. "The bath is already drawn. The water is already heated. Are you going to waste it?"

I don't respond, just stare at him. He growls in his throat and I flinch, looking away.

Peeta has been so much better since his return after the war at the Capital. He'd returned virtually cured, his eyes clear and bright and full of the life I remembered in them from before the Capital devastated his mind. But the feeling of his fingers around my throat still haunts me, the delirious look in his eyes a permanent stain on my memory.

A moment later I feel Peeta's hand on my cheek, pulling my face to look at him. He frowns down at me, then kneels to be eye level with me. He strokes back a stray lock of hair, the frown on his face reaching his eyes.

"You're still scared of me, aren't you?"

I don't respond and I can't meet his eyes.

Peeta curses. "I'm sorry, Katniss. After everything that's happened, even after they won the war, they've still managed to ruin the one thing we have left."

"And what's that?" I snap, looking into his eyes angrily, challenging the ice in them. "What do we have left Peeta? Please tell me, because I see nothing."

Peeta challenges me back with his eyes, beating back at my anger with a steady look of determination. "Us, Katniss. We still have us."

I look away, losing the silent battle. "We don't have anything Peeta. The Capital even managed to ruin something they started, that they created."

Peeta's quiet for a minute. When he does speak, I almost miss it.

"You love me. Real, or not real."

I flinch at the words, the reminder of our game from when he was overcoming the Capital's brainwashing. But I know my answer. It hasn't changed over the course of these few months.

"Real."

Peeta doesn't say anything else, but I feel his silent sense of triumph. When he does speak, it isn't what I expect.

"Bath time."

He then hauls me to my feet, smiling at me as if nothing bitter had passed between us. I realize that now his smile is shy. He reachs down and traces the hem of my shirt.

"I'll be a complete gentleman, I promise," he says, staring down at the hem of my shirt. "I'll see you safely into the tub, then leave."

My breath comes in as a gasp, but the idea doesn't horrify me as much as I thought it would. This is Peeta after all. He's seen the ragged shards of my emotional self. I've nursed him and he's nursed me. We've seen all sides of each other.

Except...he hasn't seen _me_ before. In all our struggles, through everything we've been through, he's never seen that part of me before. And the fact that he'll see it now, when it's rough, misshapen and not truly all my skin anymore...well, that's just another thing to add to the list of things the Capital has taken away from me.

I find myself nodding unexpectedly. "Just the tops, the unders stay on."

Peeta's eyes light up with shock, but he has the grace to keep his face serious. "Okay."

He slides his fingers under the hem of my shirt, tracing the skin he finds there. Slowly he moves his fingers up the sides of my body, pulling the shirt up with them. I'm not sure who's the one breathing loudly, me or him. Maybe it's both of us. He stops when he hits my bra, pulling his fingers away from my skin and fully grasping my shirt then pulling it over my head.

For a split second I almost seize the shirt when it hits my neck, to hold it over my face so I can't see his reaction to my body. But I don't. I let him pull it over my head and toss it to the corner, where it falls sloppily and sodden to the ground. It takes me a moment, but I lift my eyes to his, bracing myself for the expected look of horror in his eyes. But it isn't there. He isn't looking at my body. Instead, he's looking in my eyes, steadying me. That is my Peeta. Strong. Steady.

"The pants too?" He asks.

I nod, but bend myself to remove those. They fall to my ankles, where I kick them over into the corner with my shirt. I stand up slowly, waiting for his reaction to my bared body. But he still isn't looking at it. As soon as I stand up his eyes are back on mine. And he doesn't break the eye contact even when he bends over and put his arms behind me knees and back and sweeps me up into a cradle in his arms. I'm surprised by the feel of him under my hands, where the muscles under his shirt move slowly as he shifts my weight in his arms. A thrill goes through my body while I savor this brief moment where I can allow myself to touch him without worry or guilt. He turns and places me carefully in the water, which is almost unbearably warm, but not quite. I hiss as my sore muscles hit the heat, but something on my face must tell Peeta it's ok because he drops me in the rest of the way.

I sigh with pleasure, leaning back against the back of the tub to rest my head and tilt my head back to relax. But I open my eyes a second later when I feel Peeta begin to shift away from the tub. Before I know what I'm doing, my hand snaps out of the water and snatchs the cloth of his pants, stopping him from moving away.

"Stay with me?" I ask, looking up at him with what I'm sure is a pleading look on my face.

Peeta's face is soft when he answers. "Always."

He moves to take my recently vacated seat on the lid of the toilet, but I don't move my hand from it's grip on his pants. Instead I say, "You're cold and wet too, you know."

Peeta smiles. "I know. I can wait until you're done."

I shake my head. "There's room for both of us, Peeta."

His eyes widen. "Katniss--"

"Please?" I ask. "You said you'd stay."

"I _am_ staying."

"You said you'd stay with me. With me is in this tub."

Peeta stands there for a minute, dumbfound. This is the first request for physical contact I've made in...well, I don't think either of us can remember the last time.

"Are you sure?" He asks, still turning to sit on the lid.

"Of course. There's no point in making you wait. Just...just leave your unders on too, please." I couldn't bare anything else right now.

"Okay."

His hands move to his shirt hem, lifting it up his body and over his head. I fight myself not to look away, but to instead look on with a look of quiet disinterest. I don't know if I fail or if Peeta is just as shy as me, because I can see his face begin to redden before it disappears behind his shirt. But careful to stick to Peeta's strategy, I male sure my eyes are locked on his when the shirt comes over his head. He smiles softly at me, then bends to slide his pants over his legs. He repeats my earlier movements, kicking them over to the corner once they're on his ankles. Again, I make sure to lock my eyes on his when he stands up.

I know this must be hard for Peeta, harder because of the prosthetic on his left leg. He drops his eyes from mine to look down at it for a moment, a look of frustration on his face. He lifts his face to stay something, but I cut him off.

"Take it off and come here, Peeta," I say, holding a hand out to him.

"I can just leave it on, Kat--"

"No," I say firmly, giving my hand a small flick of impatience. "There's no point in getting it more wet. Let it dry and give your leg a break." His look continues to look a mix of argumentative and worried.

"Peeta," I say, this time more softly. "It doesn't bother me. Nothing about you could upset me. Just climb in, please?"

Peeta gives me a small smile before he sits down on the lip of the tub to unhook his prosthetic. He drops it gingerly to the ground before turning to me. Again, I make sure we are eye to eye, that he can see my certainty. I hold my hand out to him again and he takes it in his, then swings his legs over the side of the tub. I steady him with my hand, helping him to climb in behind me.

He eases into the tub, hissing like I had when he hits the steamy water. But he quickly settles in, his legs resting on either side of mine. I lean back into him then, my head resting on his shoulder as I let my eyes fall closed, matching my breathing to his.

We lay like that for a while before Peeta puts his hands on my shoulders, rubbing gently, finding knots I hadn't known existed. I let out a hiss of approval, which Peeta interprets, correctly, as a sign of his good work. He spends our time together like that, working on my back and shoulders, working out tension not soothed by the water. By the time he'ss done, I'm limp in his arms and my head is slumped against his shoulder again, a small smile on my face. I open my eyes to look into his again, steadied by the rock of strength I find in them.

Peeta is so kind to me, holding firm every time I push him away. It seems like every attempt I make to push him away only winds up with him being able to pull me closer than ever. He's constantly caring for me, as he always has. He's the boy with the bread, he's the boy who keeps me warm, even when I don't know it.

This reminds me of the limp I'd noticed today, of Peeta's discomfort with his prosthetic. I realize something then.

"Your leg," I gasp, sitting up so suddenly that water nearly sloshs out of the tub.

"What about it?" Peeta asks, stroking lazy patterns on my shoulders.

"You've been on it too much, working to keep both of our places heated."

Peeta's fingers on my shoulders stop and he shifts uneasily. "It's not that...well, I mean I'm due for a new one soon. But the idea of going back to the Capital--"

"No," I say firmly, turning to look at him. "You've been overdoing it, Peeta. You can't do that, you can't hurt yourself for me."

"For you, Katniss, anything," he says, repeating his words from earlier.

Those words don't reassure me though. This silly boy, whose life is supposed to be safe after the end of the Games, shouldn't still be able to nearly kill himself for me.

As I sit turned, a small part of me realizes that this position was not as uncomfortable as it usually is. I realize it's because my muscles have been rejuvenated under Peeta's touch. An idea came to me then.

I turn away from him and moved my left hand to rest on his left leg. I rub it softly, gently working the muscles where his leg ends.

"Is this okay?" I ask as I hear him hiss.

"Yes," he sighs and I feel him lean his head back. "That's nice, Katniss."

Encouraged, I lean more to my left and bring my right hand over too and begin to rub at the tight muscles in his leg. He hisses again in pleasure, his hands going limp at his sides and slightly floating in the water as he relaxes. I feel the muscles in his chest and stomach, tense minutes ago, relax as I work the muscles in his shortened leg. Occasionally I'll hit a tendon or muscle that's particularly sore. He tenses up again when I hit them, but I'm steady with my strokes, working each one until I feel them give way under my hands and the muscles behind me in his chest and stomach relax again.

I go on like this for a while, working at his leg until my hands become cramped and my movements start to be jerky. Peeta realizes this and leans forward, wrapping his arms around me to take my hands in his and pull them away from his leg. He bends over and presses a soft kiss to the side of my neck.

"Thank you, Katniss," he whispers into my skin.

I shiver in response, answering with a soft, "Hmmm..."

Peeta chuckles softy, kissing my neck one more time before pulling back. "As nice as this has been, I'm starting to look like Beetee, plus a decade or two."

Smiling at the name of our old friend I look down at my hands. Yes, they're thoroughly wrinkled, matching Peeta's description of Beetee plus 10. Shaking my head I stand in the tub. I let the water run off of my body and then turn to face Peeta, who is still laying back in the tub. He's looking up at me with a strange expression on his face, a look I can't examine well with the current height difference.

I step out of the tub, grabbing a towel from the stack on the sink and rubbing it over me the best I can to stop from dripping too much and making the floor slick. I then turn to Peeta, who has managed to get himself up out of the water and is sitting on the edge of the tub.

"I could have helped you, you know," I say to him, handing a fresh towel to him to pat dry with.

Peeta scowls up at me as he takes the towel. "I'm not defenseless, you know. I've had this thing for almost two years now and I've managed pretty well. If you'll recall, I did just fine during the Quell, before--"

"Stop!" I shriek, my hands in fists at my sides.

How dare he bring that up? How dare he talk about the Quell, how he "managed" until....

I turn away from him, stomping from the room. Over my shoulder I shout to him, "I'll bring you a set of clothes," leaving a stunned Peeta behind.

I fume as I walked to the bedroom, searching through my clothes until I find something big and comfortable enough for him to wear overnight. Slamming the dresser drawer shut I pound my way back to the bathroom, throwing open the door to rocket the bundled set of pants at his face. Before he can say anything I slamm the door shut and go back to the bedroom to change myself.

I tear my undergarments off of me roughly, throwing them to an unknown corner of the room. As I dress in my night clothes I fight the urge to scream again, to sink back into the hole of despair that's calling to me as I fight the memories of Peeta's capture, of the scrambled moments to find him, of being lifted away and finding out that Peeta was not coming with me...the moment I lost _my_ Peeta....

As I throw myself on the bed, I hear the bedroom door creak open and the shuffle of Peeta's feet and he comes in to the room. I keep my head facing upwards, looking at the ceiling as he comes up to the bed. He stands there for a moment, standing there as if he isn't sure what to do. Then he sighs and climbs up next to me. He tenderly places a hand on the side of my cheek, brushing away a fly away hair.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs as he strokes my cheek. "That was stupid of me to say."

"How dare you?" I hiss, still not looking at him. "How dare you bring that up, Peeta?" I try to say more but it chokes up in my throat, unable to pass my lips.

"I've moved on from it, Katniss," Peeta says, "I'm better. I'm not normal, not like I was before...but I'm better now. We're together again. The damage they did, it's minimal now."

"It's not better, Peeta," I say. "It will never be better. That day...that day is one of the worst days of my life. Right up there with the day dad died, and Pr--" I choke on the words again, unable to say her name. I take a shuddering breath before continuing. "It's the day I lost you. The day I failed you."

Peeta gasps. "You didn't fail me, Katniss. If you hadn't ruined that force field, we all would have died, they would have seen to that. There wouldn't have been a victor for any district that year. They would have slaughtered all of us. You saved us that day. It just...took me a little longer to get home."

"Peeta," I sigh, closing my eyes. "Just stop. Please."

"Hey," Peeta says softly, leaning over to place his other hand on my face and pull me to look at him. "Open your eyes, Katniss," he whispers, his breath a ghost across my face. I open my eyes slowly to look into his, ice meeting steel for the hundredth time that day. "I guess the reason I don't see that day the same way you do is because to me it was a triumph. We'd won a battle against the Capital. Not the war, but a big battle. I guess the worst day for me now, looking back...is the day I almost killed you."

I shudder at this, trying to pull away. "Peeta..."

"No," Peeta says sternly, his grip on each side of my face firmer now. "If the others hadn't been there, I don't even like to imagine what would have...what I might have...."

I silence him with a finger to his mouth. "No more Peeta," I say softly, closing my eyes again, unable to bare the intensity in his eyes anymore. "Can we just...can we talk about this tomorrow?"

"Sure," he says, then places a chaste kiss to my forehead. He pulls back and gives me a small smile, then moves to get off the bed.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" he asks as he moved to stand.

Alarmed, I seize his arm, pulling him back to sit firmly on the bed.

"Stay with me?" I ask for the second time that day.

Peeta's smile widens as he leans back on the bed, putting a hand back on my face to stroke the subtle lines at the side of my eyes.

"Always."

I smile back at him then, opening my arms to him. Peeta comes to me, climbing into my embrace. We stay like that for a moment, then Peeta shifts us so he can pull the covers out from under and then back over us. Once we're settled in he leans over and turns off the lamp by the bed, plunging us into darkness.

We lay like that for a while, listening to each other breath. My head is on his chest and the beating of his heart under my ear is reassuring as it lulls me into near unconsciousness with his arms wrapped around me.

I'm almost asleep when Peeta puts his hand under my chin and lifts my head to look up at him. In the darkness I can see his eyes twinkling at me, shining with emotions I don't know if I'm ready to face.

"Katniss," he murmurs softly. "I don't know when I'll have you like this with me again, warm and content in my arms. So I hope you'll understand why I'm going to do this."

Before I can ask what he means, I feel his lips on mine. Peeta's lips. How long has it been since I've felt them like this? Months probably, but it feels like years. Long enough that their softness is a surprise to me, the warmth a jolt to my system. The tingling, gentle fire spreads from my lips to my toes, warming me all the way through. My acceptance must be clear to him, because he doesn't pull away as quickly as I expect him to. He lingers for a moment longer, moving his lips slowly over mine, savoring the moment. And just as my need for air is becoming bothersome, he pulls gently away.

"Peeta--"

"No," Peeta says firmly, pulling his head away to rest back on the pillows. "No more talking tonight, Katniss. Just lay here with me. I have a feeling I'll finally get a good night's sleep, here with you."

I don't respond, but let my cheek fall back to his chest so my ear is over his heart again.

His next words are so soft I almost don't hear them.

"I love you, Katniss. Always have. Always will."

It takes me so long to respond I don't even know if he's still awake. His breathing has slowed to long, even breaths and his arms have gone soft where they've wrapped around my body, holding me close to him.

"I love you too."

I think he heards me though, because I feel his arms squeeze me one last time as I drift into sleep

* * *

 

.x.x.x.

* * *

Hey guys! So some of you may recognize this story if you're on FF, it's posted there too!

As a heads up, this story is rated "Teen" to allow more people to feel comfortable reading it, but there will be "M" to "E" portions posted seperately for those who need a little kick :)

I know that Katniss had been super against the Capital Hunger Games at the end of Mockingjay, but I can't stop thinking about how much Prim's death could have changed her views on everything, warped her sense of justice into a dark mass of anger.

Thus this story!

Check me out on Tumblr at http://simplyabbeycat.tumblr.com . I'm new to this tumblr things so stick with me. Comment, make requests, get upcoming chapter sneek peeks and more.

Love and kisses!

Simply Abbey

 


	2. Cymbal

Disclaimer: I don't own Hunger Games or any characters or settings from it.

 

Chapter 2: Cymbal

 _“Remember, girl on fire,” he says, “I'm still betting on you.”_  
 _Cinna--Catching Fire_ [   
](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/6171458)

 

There was fire in my dreams that night. There's fire in my dreams every night, it seems. I'm Katniss, the Girl on Fire. But I'm not on fire. I'm consumed by it, eaten by it, torn apart by it. In my dreams, I'm not the one on fire. Sometimes it's a stranger, a rebel from District 13 or a child from the Capital. But sometimes it's someone I know, Effie, Haymitch, Gale, Peeta...Prim. They're on fire, and I'm eaten alive from the inside from it.

Today, it's Peeta. This surprises me. After the episode with the primroses yesterday I was sure it'd be someone else. When I dream of Effie, she screams. Haymitch throws alcohol on himself to end it quickly. Gale raises his hunting knife to slit his throat. Prim looks at me with horror, pain and betrayal until she falls away to ash. But Peeta...Peeta always walks up to me, a tight smile on his face. He puts both of his hands behind my neck and plays with his favorite strands of hair there. And then he kisses me, softly but urgently. And it's not just a kiss, because as his lips move against mine, Peeta pulls all of the fire from inside of me and into himself. When I'm empty and cold, he steps back and smiles at me before disappearing behind a flash of fire.

When I finally pry myself from the nightmare I'm screaming Peeta's name and touching my cool lips in horror. I realized I'm thrashing, fighting the heavy pull of the dream until I realize it's Peeta, holding me in his arms. I gasp when I realize it's him, throwing my arms over his shoulders and burying myself in his chest.

"Peeta," I sob, burrowing my nose into the smattering of hair on his chest, "Peeta."

His hands are in my hair, soothing me with their touch. They're cool against my fevered skin, rubbing firm circles in my scalp. And I let him do it for a while, let him bring me down from that crazed place my dreams always dump me in. I close my eyes and breathe his scent in, let it overtake me while my breathing slows. We lay like that for a while, until Peeta breaks the silence.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked quietly, moving to play with the end of my braid, rolling it between his fingers.

I sigh. "No, I don't."

He's quiet for a minute, then asks, "Your dream...you dream about me?"

I look up at him thing, looking into his eyes, wondering what he's thinking.

"Sometimes," I murmur, tearing my gaze away from him to look at the carpet by the bed, which is fraying in one corner. "Sometimes it's other people, Haymitch, Gale...."

There's another long pause before he asks, "Do I..do I ever hurt you? In your dreams?"

I gasp and throw myself up to sit upright on the bed, looking down at his startled expression with what I'm sure is a look of astonishment.

"No, Peeta," I say, reaching down to put my hand gingerly on the side of his face. "You rescue me...and when you do it kills you."

Peeta sits up with me, putting his hand over mine on his face.

"I'd tell you it's only a dream, but I'd be lying," he whispers to me. "I'd do anything, let myself die to save you."

"I know," I say, pulling my hand from under his and looking away again, back at the rug. "That's why I scream. Because I know you'd do it if you could. And that scares me."

* * *

 I meet Peeta downstairs in the kitchen to find he's already hard at work on breakfast, fresh rolls in the oven. He's at the stove, pushing around some meat in the pan absentmindedly.  My stomach heaves in protest at the smell of cooked meat, reminding me of the smells haunting my dreams, of flesh burning under flames....

I'm out the door in a second, gasping to take in the cool morning air, trying to clear my lungs of the smell of burning flesh. It's not enough, though. I'm heaving in the bushes, but I haven't eaten in almost a day, so all I manage is a stream of burning bile. My body doesn't seem to realize it, though, and it continues to shove at my abdomen, forcing me to retch and retch, bringing me to my knees. I can barely get a breath in the spasms are so intense. Tears are leaking down my face as my mind and body are assaulted, and I am ashamed I can control neither.

Peeta finds me there, witnesses the complete loss of control over my body. He's down on the ground next to me, pulling my braid away from my face to my back. Between spasms he manages to get my shirt off, exposing me to the cool morning hair. It hits my sweat covered skin like ice and I gasp in surprise, then heave again. Peeta's hands are all over my back and my neck, rubbing and soothing. He's murmuring soft words in my ears, words of encouragement and peace. My body slows it's aggressive rejection but still continues to shake. My spasms are further in between now, and my body has run out of liquids to bring up. Peeta realizes this and pulls me into his arms, cradling me there on his lap with my head tucked beneath his chin. The thing that steadies me the most, that brings my body back to the surface of reality, is the steady pounding of his heart under my ears.

* * *

 

Peeta leaves me in the yard while he goes inside to get me a cool cloth for my face and something to rinse my mouth out with. He doesn't take me inside, knowing the smell will restart my nausea. I can hear him opening the windows to air out the house, but thankfully he doesn't open the ones in front to leak the smell out to me.

When he returns he's carrying one of my older shirts, worn soft from frequent use. I can't even bring myself to blush at the fact he's seeing me almost naked for the second time in 24 hours. I'm just grateful that he's here, that he seems to know exactly what I need. He also brings me a sweet roll and a glass of water to wash it down with. I groan at the sight of the roll, but he coaxes me to take a few bites and I manage down half of the glass of water. He leaves me alone after that about the food, but insists I get to my feet and walk with him. This is the last thing I want to do now. With the smell out of the house and my most comfortable shirt on, all I want to do is go back to bed. To hide under the covers and try again tomorrow. But Peeta won't have it.

"Come on," he says, pulling me to my feet. "It's time for you to get out of this house."

"I'm out of the house now," I argue, but I let him take me by the hand and gently pull me away from the house.

Peeta throws me a brilliant smile over his shoulder. "Katniss, you need a break from the gloom here. We're going to find something else for you to do."

I let him lead me away and down the path that follows in front of our homes. It's a familiar path, something to have survived the bombings all those months ago. It's a pleasant reminder that some things are too permenate to be so easily destroyed by greed and hatred and revenge. Something the fire can't reach. Something sturdy. Like Peeta.

I watch him walk, pleased to see his limp is nearly gone. I humor myself for a moment, letting myself believe that I have something to do with that after my ministrations in the tub yesterday. It's a warm feeling, and it's a rare moment for me, finding my own spark of warmth in my chest. There are few things that manage to make me happy anymore, a small scattering of reasons to smile. And I seem to find them all when I'm with Peeta.

We walk in silence, for which I am grateful. He doesn't ask me about the episode in the bushes, but I suspect he has a pretty good idea what was going on. He'd known exactly what had set me off and how to fix it. The ability of Peeta's to read me so well is unnerving and relaxing. There are so few questions between us anymore. After what we'd been through, after how bare we'd both been laid before each other, there's not a lot to say that we both don't already know.

It takes me a few moments, but I recognize the route he's leading me on. As soon as it hits me, I pull up to a stop in shock.

"No," I say firmly, pulling my hand from his.

Peeta sighs. "It's time to move on with life, Katniss. Do the things you used to do, what used to make you happy."

"You think _this_ made me happy?" I ask. "It didn't. Every day, it reminded me of how close we were to starving. How we almost did...."

He's leading me to the woods, to the dead fence that had been built decades ago to keep the members of District 12 from leaving, escaping the rule of the Capital. The woods I used to hunt it, where I spent endless numbers of hours with Gale. Where I'd learned to shoot from my father. Where I worked to keep my family alive.

"No," Peeta says, stepping toward me to take my hands again. I don't let him this time, I pull my hands away from where he can reach them. This doesn't discourage him. "You had happy times here, with Gale. You learned about yourself, became a strong woman. You got your independence out here, Katniss." I can feel his eyes searching my face, which I'd turned away from him. He spoke again, more quietly. "Don't let them take this from you too."

I flinch at those last words. The Capital had already taken this from me, the day they led Gale to do the unthinkable. Sweet, strong Gale, who I'd thought would always be a constant in my life. Now Gale was a bitter reminder of the betrayal that came with Prim's death. And anything associated with him was tainted to me now.

When I don't respond, Peeta speaks again.

"Can I at least show you something?"

I turn to look at him this time, letting my eyes meet his searching ones. We lock eyes and hold for a moment, a silent battle to reach ground we can stand on firmly again. After a moment, I sigh and concede with a nod. Peeta doesn't smile, doesn't do anything except hold his hand out to me again. I take it, and he continues to lead me to the forest surrounding District 12.

* * *

 

We reach the forest a few minutes later, stopped by the old, misshapen fence of District 12. Peeta gives me a small smile, then lifts up the section of fence I had long used as my path of escape. He lets me scramble underneath it, then follows. Before we leave, Peeta rearranges the fence again, making sure our passage is concealed. While the boundaries of District 12 are no longer strictly maintained, it wouldn't do to have the average resident climbing under the fence and into the disorienting forest.

Taking my hand again, Peeta leads me down a deer trail between the trees, twisting and winding through the brush. I'm about to ask him where we're going, if anywhere, when Peeta stops in front of a large tree. He drops my hand, locking eyes with me for a moment before turning away to look into the large tree. I watch as he reaches into the warp in the wood where a small alcove was formed into the trunk. He grabs something, then pulls it out to reveal....

"A bow?" I ask, stepping back. "Where did you get that?"

It isn't a city made bow, all shiny and artificial. It's handmade from sturdy wood, warped by the handmade string that hold it taunt  in the standard "W" shape. I can see where hands had shaped the wood into the right shape, where steam had been used to warp the wood, make it easier to bend and twist. Yes, this was no city bow.

Peeta smiles shyly. "I made it. Well, I had help making it. One of the new guys at the Hob, he showed me. Offered to get me a city one, but I didn't think you'd want one of those."

He holds the bow out to me, but I take a step back. He doesn't frown or roll his eyes at me. Instead he looks at me like one would look at a wild animal who could bolt at any second. His eyes are soft as he looks at me and he keeps his body in soft, unthreatening angles as he watches me.

I shake my head at him. "I haven't held a bow since...since Coin."

Peeta nods, a look of undeserved understanding on his face. "I know. You don't have to hold it now, you don't have to do anything until you're ready. But I wanted you to know it was here, that I made it for you to use whenever you're ready." He reaches back into the alcove of the tree to pull out a quiver filled with handmade arrows to match the bow. "Arrows too, Katniss. Whenever you're ready."

I nod, but something in my gaze must have told him that I was nearing the point of bolting, because he turns away and puts the bow and arrow back in the tree. He pulls the leaves in the alcove to the front, effectively masking the hole. Then he turns back to me, his hand outstretched for mine again.

"Let's go find a place to sit," he says as my hand slips into his. "I think we could use a little sunshine."

* * *

 

Fifteen minutes later finds us on the grassy hill further into the forest, the place where Gale and I had sat on the day of my Reaping, before I knew how much my life would change. I can't help but wonder how my life will change again today, especially when Peeta says,

"So...the first Capital Reaping is tomorrow."

I'm laying on my back, my eyes closed and soaking up the sunshine. I don't open my eyes when he says it. I must do something though, because Peeta's next statement catches me off guard.

"I don't like that look on your face, Katniss."

This gets my attention. I open my eyes and sit up on my elbows, putting all of my weight on my left elbow so I can look over at him where he lay next to me.

"What do you mean?" I ask, puzzled.

"That look on your face, just now," Peeta says, eyes drilling into me. "A look of sick, sad happiness."

I snort. "It's the face of revenge, Peeta." I notice then the uncomfortable look on his face and am horrified. "Don' t tell me you feel sorry for them!"

He rises as well, matching my position by resting all of his weight on his right elbow to look at me properly. He shifts anxiously, though, as if he's worried about what he's about to say.

"It's just..." He sighs. "Look, having the kids from the Capital do 75 years of Hunger Games seemed like a great idea all those months ago, the perfect revenge. But now...I can't help but worry we're making a big mistake."

"A mistake," I scoff. "Please Peeta."

"No, Katniss." He sighs, rising to sit fully upright. He pulls his knees up to his chest and hugs them there while he stares off into the distance. "I have a bad feeling about this. We killed so many of the Capital's children in the war, I don't think they're going to give up any more without a fight. Especially Snow's granddaughter."

The right side of my face rises up in a smirk at the mention of Snow's granddaughter. What a happy little twist that was. If only Snow was still alive to watch her die.

The idea of a Capital Hunger Games had been brought up a few times during discussion of parameters for agreements between the Capital and the Districts to end the war. It was decided then at each year the capital would offer up 24 tributes of their own to participate in the very same competition they'd forced upon the districts for so long. There would be 75 games in total, including three "special" games on years 25, 50 and 75. At the end of the 75 years, the Hunger Games would be abolished forever, the slate clean.

"Don't smile about it, Katniss." I'm pulled from my thoughts by Peeta's words. He's looking at me again, his eyes searching my face. "Even you can't be so cruel. We've been through a war with them. Both sides lost people. Shouldn't it be time to call it even and move on with our lives?"

I throw myself back on the ground at his words, anger steeling my arms to my sides while I shook with emotion.

"No, Peeta. Things aren't even," I say through tightly-clenched teeth. "After we lost the first war, they created the Hunger Games to punish us. Well they lost this war, so it's time that we punish them."

"They've already lost so many children," Peeta says softly, his eyes imploring me to see what he sees. "They lost hundreds in the bombing, the same bombing that killed Prim."

I close my eyes again at her name, a lone tear running down my cheek. I think to brush it away, until I realize it's on the cheek he can't see from where he sits.

"Yes," I say, my voice a soft growl in the wind. "The bombing that killed Prim, and hundreds of other innocent people on our side. No, the slate is not clean. We are not even. They have 75 years of worry and pain to pay for. We're going to get every bit of it."

There's silence before Peeta says, "It wasn't them who dropped the bomb, Katniss. It was us."

Yes, and that was the one thing that allowed me to have my reservations. That kept me from my otherwise unconcerned bittersweet joy at watching the Capital prepare for their Hunger Games. We'd trusted ourselves to Coin, who murdered the innocent.

But that changed nothing. There was still revenge to be had, and we had front seats to see it all happen.

* * *

We leave the meadow not long after that, both of us walking in silence back to our homes. This time Peeta doesn't hold my hand. His are stuffed into his pockets and he keeps his eyes locked on the ground, deep in thought. While I miss the contact between us, I don't reach out for him. I know he's disgusted with me. Frankly, I'm a little disgusted in myself. The only thing that keeps me in decent spirits over myself is the reminder that I see the Games for what they are, and not as the sick festival the Capital played them out to be.

We part at the fork between our homes, separating for the first time in 24 hours. His absence is like a heavy cloud over my head, and I'm anxious to get cleaned up so I can see him again.

Tonight, we leave for the Capital for the Reaping. All of the seven remaining victors from the previous Hunger Games are expected to be in attendance. Also, key players from the rebellion, those whose idea it was for these new Hunger Games, will also be in attendance as important guests in the Capital. District 13 and their supporting armies have been there already for weeks now, keeping a close eye on the citizens as preparations are concluded. Originally I had been asked to come with the armies to act as Mockingjay, a symbol of strength and a reminder to the Capital of who they would be up against if they decided to protest the Games. But it had quickly been determined that Katniss Everdeen was in too fragile a state of mind to stand against the Capital again, especially with a bow in her hand. Who knows, she could kill another president.

I open the door to my house to find that not only is the house rid of the smell of cooked meat, but it's full of the pleasant smell of honeysuckle and mint. Suspicious, I walk into the kitchen to find the table covered with small metallic tubes and circles that are sickeningly familiar. I hear a shriek to my left and turn to find Flavius, Venia and Octavia clapping their hands in excitement as they rush toward me.

Before I have time to process that the trio really _is_  in my house, they're on me. Flavius is pulling at my hair in disgust while Venia lifts up my legs and examines the coarse hair growing on them. Octavia is holding my hand to help me balance while scrutinizing my ragged fingernails. All in all, they're displeased with how I've cared for myself in their absence. As much as I have grown to adore these three outrageous people, the moment brings me hurtling backward in time to the Quarter Quell when the team had embraced me in a similar fashion of exasperation at my appearance. It takes all I have in me to not rip myself from their grasps and hurtle myself back out the door and race to Peeta's arms.

A soft whisper of a voice causes them quiet their inane babbling. I turn to the doorway to find a slim figure casting a shadow, the sillouette of a small woman with a mop-top of hair. As she steps into the light, I can see that her skin is a smooth caramel that offsets the shock of blonde that is her hair, which is a large pile of tight spirals around her head. She wears a black one-piece suit with a gold jacket over the top. Her makeup is all metal colors making her eyes and lips shine in the light. While she's by all means mild for their taste, she screams "Capital" there in the doorway. And looking at her, all I can think to myself as my blood runs cold is _"Cinna"._

"Please," she says softly, her voice nearly a whisper. It reminds me of the soft howl of a lone wolf. "We discussed this."

The team has the decency to look sheepish at her words and they take a small step away from me. Flavius is the first to speak again.

"Mockingjay, this is Cymbal. She's one of the stylists this year."

Cymbal smiles and steps forward to shake my hand. I hold my own out to her after a pause, still shocked by her appearance.

"Nice to meet you," I mutter to her, unable to meet her eyes. "I didn't know they were sending anyone."

Cymbal pulls her hand from mine and uses it to brush a few stray locks of blonde from her eyes. "No, they hadn't been. But I insisted on coming to help you." Her smile then is kind. "The Mockingjay's return to the public eye needs to be done just right, and I promised Cinna I'd look after you when he was gone."

I flinch at the mention of my friend and former stylist's name, a man whom I'd held in the deepest of esteem, and who had died at the hands of the Capital a year ago.

"You knew Cinna?"

I notice now the glisten in Cymbal's eyes. "Yes," she says, her soft voice even quieter now. "He was my brother."

This shocks me. "I didn't know Cinna had a family. But then..." I trail off here. Cinna and I never discussed his family ever, there were was hardly a moment in our short times together to discuss anything not directly relate to the Games or the rebellion.

Cymbal seems to understand. "You had much to discuss, and small talk was trivial when planning a rebellion." Cymbal claps her hands then, attempting to regain control of the conversation. "As it is now. We have a lot to do before you leave, so let's get a move on, shall we?"

Within minutes the team has transformed my kitchen into a reformation center. They've sat me down in a chair and begun to work on me all at once. Flavius is working a comb through my hair and muttering about its condition and slapping different oils on it. Venia wastes no time on getting my legs covered with the wax and fabric, systematically placing them on then ripping them off my legs, taking the hair with them. Octavia scolds me for jumping at each rip as she works over my nails with a file, saying she'll end up taking off a whole finger if I'm not careful.

Cymbal has disappeared for a moment, but then reappears with a garment bag strewn over her arms. She has a knowing smile on her face as she approaches me with the bag, her eyes glittering again as if with tears.

"Cinna designed this when they were making your parade outfits for the Quarter Quell and he said it was his inspiration for your Mockingjay armor." She hands the bag over the lip of my fridge and slowly unzips the bag. I get a glimpse of black and orange, but her hair blocks the majority of my view.

And then from the bag she pulls the most amazing dress. It's elaborate and sophisticated, a gown fit for the hero of the war, the Mockingjay. But it is also so very much a Katniss dress as well. The bodice is a glistening black, shining like ebony in the light of the kitchen, which I realize is because it's inlaid with hundreds of tiny black jewels. But then I realize it's not just the light shining on it, but there's light shining in it as well. The bodice seems to glow from the inside, like an ember fighting to stay alive. The black material of the bodice continues down into the skirts, which are slitted to reveal petticoats of red and gold underneath, which look like fire licking between the slits as Cymbal carries the dress over to me. I reach out with the hand not in Octavia's clutches to stroke the fabric. It's soft under my touch, even the normally rough petticoats flow over my hands like silk, reminding me of the oozing of lava from holes in the ground.

"It's amazing," I gasp, looking up at Cymbal. She smiles encouragingly down at me, her eyes glistening still, exaggerated by the flashing colors of the dress.

"He wanted you to have a dress to wear as a hero of the war. To remind you of how beautiful and strong you are."

Only Cinna would think of such a thing. As I hold his dress in my hands I imagine I can hear his voice in my ear, encouraging me. He knew the war would ravage me, decimate my heart and possibly even my body too. Only Cinna could find a way to reach me like this, through a dress. He found a way to reach me one more time from the grave. And the most amazing thought hits me last-he made this before the rebellion officially began. He knew I'd be a victorious hero before anyone else. And I feel a stream of tears leave my eyes as I realize this.

Cymbals eyes are sad now. "I'm afraid this is the last dress. I have his sketchbook, full of ideas he had here and there for different pieces. I can work from them, keep true to his ideas for you. But this is the last outfit he has for you, the last one he personally had a hand in. And I wanted to save it for something special." Cymbal's voice grows suddenly strong and hard as she says, "I wanted to save it for the day his death was avenged."

I raise my gaze from the dress to fully look her in the eyes. I say nothing, but we both know that we are in agreement about this. With her I will find no arguments. The Capital is going to pay for what they'd done to us, to the districts, to Cinna. We ignore the uncomfortable shuffling from the prep trio, and I never stop to think about how they feel about these new Hunger Games. The tone of our shared gaze is clear. Revenge starts now.

* * *

 

Flavius, Venia and Octavia disappear after that, their work with me done. They've dressed me in a pair of muted green pants and a brown shirt, both made of a soft material designed for traveling comfort. The material feels nice on my red, overworked skin. I've been laying lazily on the couch for the last fifteen minutes watching them back up, but I didn't expect them to leave so soon. I give them a questioning look as they walk out the door, and they respond with smirks and winks in my direction.

"We've got to go tend to Lover Boy now, get his pretty face camera ready," Venia says with a wistful look on her face.

I must have glared at her, because Flavius jumps in then. "Don't worry, Mockingjay," he says with a silly smile. "We'll tell him we've got you all cleaned up again. I'm sure he'll be over to inspect out work as soon as we leave him alone."

My jaw drops and I'm about to protest, but they're out the door before I can get a word in. Cymbal turns her head away, but I can see the smile she's trying to hide. She puts the dress back in the bag, then takes it off the fridge and drapes it back over her arms. She bids me goodbye, saying she has to go check on Peeta. But she promises she'll see me tomorrow on the train, where she'll get me ready for the Reaping and my first official reappearance as the Mockingjay war hero. She tells me our bags are alreay packed and making their way to the train, where they'll be waiting for us in our compartments. Then she's out the door and I'm alone.

* * *

 

It doesn't take long, maybe an hour or so, before there's a knock on the door. I open it and find Peeta there, smiling shyly at me.

"I heard they got you too."

I roll my eyes at his statement, but step back to let him in. As he shuts the door behind him, I'm hit with the masculine smell of aftershave that always accompanies his after the prep team has shaved his face with their fancy Capital blades. Despite having been the losers in a war, the Capital is still privy to more than the outlying districts. Even after being freed from the Capital's rule, the inner districts still pay special favor to the Capital, especially District 1, who sends them all matter of finely crafted goods in trade. He's also dressed in comfortable traveling clothes made of what I assume is a similar material to mine. I have to stop myself from reaching out to feel it.

Peeta looks me over, appraising their work. I blush and shove him. "Enjoying the view, Mellark?"

Peeta shakes his head. "Not that I'm not, but they take something away from you when they do that to you. Shine you up like a doll in the way that they do."

I chuckle at this. "Yeah, they're taking away months of grit and grime of the coal dust that's managed to settle over me. I swear, I could be gone for years and it would only take a day for it to look like I'd never left." While my words hit at frustration, this fact thrills me. The Capital can do what they want, but District 12 will always have a claim on me.

"No, it's not that," Peeta says thoughtfully. "I think it's the...wild. You've always been independent, dangerous and unpredictable. They take that away when they shine you up that way."

I take a step toward Peeta, placing my hands on his cheeks and looking into his eyes. "I'm still me," I say to him. "That's all surface stuff. I'm still Katniss under all the gloss."

Peeta puts his hands over mine, then gives me a small smile. "Yeah, I can still see it in your eyes. Still as wild as always."

I'm dazzled for a moment, so I try to steer the conversation away from me and onto him. "I hate it when they shave your face with their blades." I run my thumbs over his cheeks, feeling smooth skin where stubble had been this morning. "Your face feels like a girls," I tease.

Peeta's eyes are merry, but he keeps his face serious. "I don't know, I think I like what they do in the hair removal department." To emphasize his point, Peeta slides his hands up my arms and away from my hands, moving smoothly over now hairless skin. The waxing has left my skin sensitive and I shiver at his touch. His eyes go for light to dark as his fingers slide over my shoulders, up my neck and into my newly silken hair. I register what he's about to do, and contemplate bolting for a half-second before the heat coming from Peeta's body relaxes me. I close my eyes, then feel his lips touch mine.

He heat coming from him is exquisite, and I slide my hands from his face to his neck to wrap into his blonde locks in a way similar to how he holds mine. This kiss is less chaste than the last, but Peeta moves slowly, working his lips over mine until he can feel me slowly surrender to him. I feel like he's burning me, starting at my lips and moving down to my toes. In his arms, I am the girl on fire.

When my total surrender is evident to him, he slides one hand down my back, stopping at the dip in my spin. He flattens his palm against me there, pulling me closer to his body. The elbow attached to the hand still hair rises, then drops to encompass my shoulder and back, pulling me closer still. It's as if now that he has me here, he'll fight me to keep me there. But I'm not running this time, not right now. This is where I wanted to be hours ago, when the prep team arrives and brought me back to the dark time of the Quarter Quell, when I knew that we would not both be able to leave the arena again. Being here in his arms, being pressed so close against his body, we the affirmation I needed to know that he was okay, we were okay. He was alive and well in my arms, far from the reach of the Capital and they would never be able to hurt him again.

He seems to be able to sense my need for oxygen, so he pulls his lips from mine. I'm about to sigh in despair when his lips land back on me, this time on the bone my cheek. He places a kiss there, then moves to place one in the hollow of my cheek, and then the curve of my jaw. He moves his way down until he's kissing the hollow of my neck. He nibbles me there gently before burying his nose in my skin, inhaling deeply. His arms are still at my hair and back, holding me close to him while both of my hands are tangled in his hair.

He speaks again, not lifting his head but speaking into my skin. A shiver runs up my back as I try to process the words he's saying over the many voices in my head. "It's time to go."

I sigh then, not wanting to part from him, but knowing we have to. I pull away from him and he lifts his head to look in my eyes. He must see something in them that worries him, because he leans down to give me a quick kiss  on the cheek.

"Don't worry, Mockingjay," he says with a teasing tone. "You're old news now, a retired victor who's too battle-weary to put on a good show. They'll parade you around for a day or two, then it's back here to our humble home where I can continue to fatten you up on bread and honey."

I look down at my small frame, then look back up at him with a smile. "If you've been trying to get me fat, you're failing miserably."

He chuckles, the puts a hand in mine, pulling me to the door. "Remind me to work on that when we get back here. I've got a lot of baking to do."

I let him pull me out of the house, stopping for moment to close the lock the door, then tuck the key under behind the primrose bushes in front for the little girl who will be stopping by to take care of Buttercup while we're gone. My hand's back in his a moment later, then we're making our way toward the square, where we'll take the car to the train, and then make our way toward the Capital.


End file.
